


Killing / Loving

by gothssad



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Eventual Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Humor, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Mickey is a murderer lol, POV Mickey, Revenge killing, Romantic Soulmates, Scared Mickey Milkovich, Sexual Tension, terry milkovich being himself, triggering topics for sure be careful lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothssad/pseuds/gothssad
Summary: Mickey, an ill-mannered southside thug kills pedophiles in his spare time. Ian, a simple yet soft southside gay (with a secret) is looking for shooting lessons. In a gallavich adventure of running from the cops, the dead, their pasts and most importantly themselves, what could go wrong?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Killing / Loving

I am not a good man. Yeah, I could mean that in the typical sense: I  _ do _ frequently break the law, deal drugs, deck  _ any _ fucking guy who messes with me. But it’s hardly my run-ins with ‘clients’ that define whether I am good or bad. I wouldn’t say I’m bad either – what I do, I do for good reason. It’s never somebody innocent, it’s never a rando. It’s always somebody with a very specific, very awful track record. 

The first was the man who made me his victim. That was the most disturbing one, too. Not because he was the first, but because by the time I got to him, he was 80-something and breathing with the help of a tube in his own home. He didn’t look so daunting then. A man like that looked almost innocent. He wasn’t. It took some hesitation. I’d brought a gun, but I figured I could snip his life support machine. And I did. 

The rest didn’t cause any hesitation. They were very capable men, very capable of hurting more people. I had no problem shooting them right between the eyes, because to me, they didn’t deserve to be people. They didn’t deserve to appreciate a sunrise or laugh at a TV show. What they inflict is monstrous. And they should be treated as monsters. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am no hero. Yeah, I do it partially so that nobody has to go through what I went through. But that’s not it. The man who hurt me couldn’t have hurt anyone else, he couldn’t even make it to the fucking toilet. I killed him because I decided I wanted to play god with awful men like him, because I decided he didn’t deserve to live, because he hurt me and I wanted to know he didn’t get away with it. I am not a saviour, I am not the good guy. 

Like I said, I am not a good man.

“You’re pretty good at that,” a young man’s voice said from beside me. 

I jumped and pointed my gun at him. He jumped in reaction and raised his arms in innocence. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I said, and lowered the gun. 

I was ‘practicing shooting’ at a makeshift southside target practice. I didn’t really need to practice, as you could see by the quarter-sized hole in the middle of the cardboard man’s head. It was usually what I did when I needed to think. The rhythmic gunshots, paired with the occasional cigarette break, and the fact that nobody liked to approach me was heaven. Until now, apparently. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya,” he chuckled quietly. He slid down his hood, revealing bright orange hair and a face of freckles. His complexion juxtaposed with his dark hoodie and jeans. His green eyes shone in the sun that was out despite the chill in the air. He looked about my age, a soft face but a few inches taller than me. 

“You didn’t,” I said, and went back to pointing my gun at the targets. I decided on the old, fluffy, dirty chair. It ate up the bullets. 

“Right,” he said, not believing me. “I’m Ian.” 

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Cool. What do you want, Ian?” 

“Nothing,” he said, quickly, “Well–” 

“Get to it, freckles,” I interrupted, getting impatient. I liked having my alone time at the ‘range’. 

“I’ve been practicing here for a while. I haven’t seen you here before–” 

“And?” 

“My aim is shit. Like, really shit. You’re getting like, every shot, I think.” He studied the targets, looking over my multiple perfect shots.

“ _ And _ ?” I urged him to continue, not understanding what he was getting to. 

“Maybe you could teach me?” He asked awkwardly, like he knew the answer already.

I froze and laughed at the ridiculousness. “Fuck no.” 

“I’ll pay you!” He insisted, somewhat desperately. 

I thought for a second. Yeah, drugs pull in the money, but I hardly have the time to make anything more than the rent these days. “How much?” 

“How much do you want?” He offered. 

“Fifty bucks a lesson.” I shot into the chair again. I liked seeing the dirt explode off of it like a shitty firework. 

“Jesus, in this neighbourhood?” 

I grinned smugly. “You understand the hustle. Take it or leave it.” 

“How many times a week?” 

I looked at him, surprised he was considering it. He was dead serious. “However many you want, man.” 

“Three?” 

I snorted. “Thought you didn’t have the cash.” 

“I’m an EMT, I have the cash,” he defended himself. 

“Ooh, smart guy,” I taunted. “What’s an EMT need shooting lessons for?” 

“None of your business.” 

I flicked the safety on and put my gun in the back of my pants. “Fair enough,” I faced him, “When do you wanna start?” 

He grinned brightly. “Now?” 

I scrunched up my face - smells of scam. “Cash up front.” 

He nodded quickly and dug around in his jeans’ pockets. Finally, he scrounged up the cash in a pile of bills and handed it over. 

“Did Mr. EMT just give me fifteen one-dollar bills?” 

“So maybe I’m a stripper on the side,” he shrugged, and I couldn’t tell if it was a joke. 

“Do whatever you want in your time, man. You bring a gun?” I said, straight to business.

“Yeah,” he reached into his large sweater pocket and pulled out a green and grey camouflage glock. He turned it over in his hand. 

“Is that fuckin’ camo?” I scrunched up my face at the sight. 

“Yeah, what?” He asked, confused. “Thought it looked cool.” 

I sighed. “Doesn’t. Looks like you’re about to go deer hunting with a fucking glock.” 

“Can you do that?” He asked cluelessly. 

I blinked until I could process the ridiculous question. “No, you cannot fucking do that. Jesus. Do you know  _ anything _ about guns?” 

He shrugged, “No. Not really.” 

“‘Kay, well, show me then,” I stepped back. “Show me how you shoot. Aim at the cardboard dude’s heart.” 

He hesitated for a moment, before weakly aiming at the cutout and missing by about three feet, the bullet being eaten up by a large tree. His eyes were stuck to the tree in embarrassment. 

“You weren’t fucking about. Your aim is  _ absolute _ shit,” I nodded and laughed at him. 

“Thanks,” he said bitterly and lowered the gun. “What’s your name, by the way?” 

“What’s it matter? Call me your fucking gun professor, I don’t care,” it was rare for me to tell anybody my name, especially on the first date - and I’d just fucking met this guy two seconds ago.

“I told you mine.”

“I didn’t fuckin ask you to,” I sized him up. He was easily a weight class ahead of me in muscle. Not that I was small, I had muscle, but this guy looked like he went to the gym every fuckin’ day. Maybe it was the soft face or the fact that his punch would probably be as bad as his shooting - but I eventually figured I could trust him. With my name. “It’s Mickey.”

His face scrunched up in sudden recognition. “Mickey? Like Mickey Milkovich?”

“Yeah,” I tensed up. A million thoughts running through my head - have I been caught? Is this guy an undercover cop? A client? Somebody looking for revenge, justice? Somebody wanting a free hit? “That gonna be a problem?” 

“No, no,” he reassured me quickly, his eyes wide in fear, “I just knew your dad I guess - or knew  _ of  _ him.”

I relaxed and rolled my eyes. I was getting paranoid, but hell, that was life. Is it paranoia if I could be caught, jailed, killed at any moment? “Piece of shit,” I commented, about my dad; Terry.

He chuckled at that - I suppose he found it ironic. “You much better?” 

I thought for a second. I am not a good man. “Probably not.” 

“What happened to him, anyway?”

“In prison. C’mon, man, let’s get back to your lesson, I’ve got shit to do,” I pulled over a wooden box, turned it upside down and sat on it beside him. “Show me again, but don’t shoot.” 

“Aim at his heart?”

“Aim at his heart.”

I took out a cigarette, not really out of craving, but more out of habit and having nothing to do with my hands. He lifted the gun to aim, and immediately I could see just how off he was. In my mind, I could place the bullet even further than the tree. “To the left,” I mumbled, the cigarette in my mouth. I was fumbling with the lighter, trying to focus on Ian’s aim and my aim at the same time. 

His eyebrows scrunched as he tried to focus. The second I looked away, he took a shot, which made me jump. It missed just as much, but in the other direction, going right into the grass and dirt. 

“I didn’t tell you to shoot,” I complained. “You just killed like two dozen ants.” 

“The opioids from those needles probably killed ‘em first,” he joked.

“Try again. Try to find a middle, you seem to go completely off to one side,” I finally got my cigarette lit, and took a deep breath in. 

I watched him take aim again. His face scrunched harder. He was definitely getting frustrated. He unintentionally aimed at the tree again. 

“Left, just a little. Not as much as last time.” 

He moved a smidge, and then shot again. Instead of going into the tree, it just skidded it, taking off a layer of bark. “Closer!” He smiled proudly. 

“Barely,” I sighed and got up from my seat. “Aim.”

He watched me confusedly, but complied. I stuck the cigarette between my lips tightly, and came behind him on my tiptoes to see over his shoulder. I put my arms over his and grabbed the outside of his hands, steadying his aim. His hands were much warmer than mine. His breath hitched.

“Close one eye. Keep the other open,” I ordered him. I closed an eye too, imagining myself in his place to get the aim just right. “Now, look at your target, focus on cardboard dude’s heart, and imagine that bullet tearing him to pieces.” 

His arms moved, as if automatically, and it certainly still wasn’t perfect, but much better.

“Now think about it, calculate how far you are,” I moved his hands by millimetres. “When you think you’re ready, shoot.”

His hands were shaking. I tightened my grip in hopes that it would get him  _ at least _ one good shot.

His shot landed in cardboard dude’s shoulder, which was better than I expected. I nodded as a salute to his efforts. “Nice.”

I let go of him and brushed myself off. He wasn’t dirty or anything, it was just… odd for me to hold a dude like that. 

“Fuck yeah!” He yelled triumphantly, loud enough for there to be an echo of his voice. He had his arms in the air like he was an olympic medalist.

“Oh, Jesus, quiet,” I looked around, worried someone would hear us. “You’ve still got lotsa work to do. Bet you can’t do that on your own,” I sat back down on the box.

He raised his eyebrows at me, taking that as a challenge. He aimed once more, on his own, closing one eye, mumbling “tearing him to pieces…”

The bullet missed the cutout, but only by about a foot. It hit a giant, beat up teddy bear in the mouth. 

“You are not making me hold your fuckin’ arms in place until you get it right.”

He gave a satisfied smile, “I didn’t ask you to.”

He breathed out, as if in relief, and then decided, for some reason, to sit on the ground next to me. I looked at him in judgement, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Can I have a drag?” He asked, referring to the cigarette in my mouth.

He weirded me the fuck out, but I figured there was no harm in it. I handed it to him reluctantly.

“You better not have herpes.”

He took the cigarette in his mouth and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He unwrapped his earbuds and stuck one in his ear. “Everybody has herpes.”

“So you’re saying you have herpes?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, but probably.”

He handed the cigarette back to me and picked a song on his phone. The album cover looked like some sad, indie shit. “Lesson’s over for today then?”

“Yeah,” he answered, and offered me the other earbud. “Wanna listen?” 

I blinked and scoffed. “No, that’s fucking gay.”

“If the shoe fits,” he said nonchalantly.

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” Did this guy just fucking call me gay?

“Don’t get your boxers in a twist, tough guy,” he laughed at me. “I meant me.”

“Oh,” I calmed down, “You’re gay?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” 


End file.
